Two Fives
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- Looking for anyone interested in an Attack on Titan roleplay with original characters
- Contact me via inbox or adminofaot#2016 on Discord
Foxes make a meal of a dead man's arm. One rends the meat from his elbow with a spurt of blood, fur of the snout washed red in human gouache. Another has at his legs like a raw entrée, the thighs torn from the bone, strings of sinewy muscle sewn between the fox's fangs. Over these fangs the fox runs a bloodied tongue.
“Shoo,” exclaims a Scout Regiment soldier as he lurches into the street. The foxes scatter into some alleyway close by. “Shoo! Damn scavengers. Having at its scraps, eh?”
“Seems that way. That's how it is,” responds his companion, a doctor in a white hospital uniform with a clipboard in between her arms. She holds onto it tightly. “That's the food chain for you. Can't be helped. Doesn't seem like any of this can. Never mind that. This one, here. Can you identify him?”
He shakes his head. “Military, though. Look, the uniform. Garrison, looks like. Add him to the count. Terrible what happened here, ain't it? Happened so fast, too. Those cultists let one titan in... and look what it did. Was lucky to evacuate as many civillians as we did, though.”
“Hard to see the rose insignia with all the blood—wait! Can you see that? No, not here. There! Is that a person? A woman! Look,“ The doctor points, “beneath the rubble. Come on. Quick!”
The Scout Regiment soldier tries to wrench the woman's body from underneath the debris... only to find she has none, the discovery evoking a frightened gasp from the doctor, “Dear Wall Sina!” The woman is a head, only a head. A dead head. When the Scout Regiment soldier moves her slightly to the side, trying to gauge her identity, her mouth opens, as if to say final words, but her tongue, frothy as a rabid Rottweiler's, only rolls out, silent as sepulchres.
The sun falls. The moon rises. This moon, however, is different. The moon is red, born of blood, and beneath her scarlet streams of light walks a man through Shiganshina's streets; a man whose face is not that much different from stone. Even in the face of the titan's aftermath, corpses heaped high like human hills, his face is stone evermore, eery and without expression. Soldiers salute him as he passes, saying, "Captain Cole, sir," along with all other facets of formality. These soldiers he treats like flies... lucky are they to receive a second glance if one at all. Approaching an official at the scene, Cole asks, "Casualties?"
“Can't say. Can account for twenty-seven of my unit. No more, no less. They're doing the count now. Should definitely have an answer for you on the morrow.”
“Give me an estimate, Camilla.”
She swallows hard. She pauses. The pause is painful. Punching, even. “Hundreds,” rumbles the woman. “The titan took out hundreds of our men. Can only be certain when we...”
“What? Salvage arms and legs and heads from the town centre? That neighbourhood over there?” He wiped some blood from his cloak to make a point of it, the raw rubbers of some soldier's kidney slippery between his fingers. “My damn uniform? Want to know who died, Camilla? Do you? All because of your inaction.”
“I couldn't--”
“We lost the colonel! Camilla, we lost the colonel,” he scolds. “You knew about the Titan Cult from the beginning... you knew about that mad bitch Elena Munshel... yet you did nothing. Nothing!”
“We all knew,” argues the scout. “We didn't think--”
“No!” A pause. “You really didn't.”
“What's done is done. This is what it is, Cole. This is the history. Carved in stone. Written in ink. And the ink has dried. There's no changing it. Call it what you will... but this is a victory.” Camilla looks sidelong and leads her comrade's eyes to the titan, fallen yet frightening all the same. Around the titan's carcass is a shroud of steam, billowing out above the streetscape like the swelling smokes of a fire. The titan's muscle fibres are soft and sticky on the bones, the cartilage and connective tissues metlting off from it to the same effect meat has with a boiler's scald. The street's cobblestone are covered in blood, some the titan's, most the Scout Regiment soldiers', whose lives were snuffed out like candlelight with a blow of tooth and claw. “We won. Came at a cost, yes... but, ultimately, we won.”
- Contact me via inbox or adminofaot#2016 on Discord
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Wall Maria / ウオール・マリア
shiganshina district / シガンシナ区
past; late eighth century
Foxes make a meal of a dead man's arm. One rends the meat from his elbow with a spurt of blood, fur of the snout washed red in human gouache. Another has at his legs like a raw entrée, the thighs torn from the bone, strings of sinewy muscle sewn between the fox's fangs. Over these fangs the fox runs a bloodied tongue.
“Shoo,” exclaims a Scout Regiment soldier as he lurches into the street. The foxes scatter into some alleyway close by. “Shoo! Damn scavengers. Having at its scraps, eh?”
“Seems that way. That's how it is,” responds his companion, a doctor in a white hospital uniform with a clipboard in between her arms. She holds onto it tightly. “That's the food chain for you. Can't be helped. Doesn't seem like any of this can. Never mind that. This one, here. Can you identify him?”
He shakes his head. “Military, though. Look, the uniform. Garrison, looks like. Add him to the count. Terrible what happened here, ain't it? Happened so fast, too. Those cultists let one titan in... and look what it did. Was lucky to evacuate as many civillians as we did, though.”
“Hard to see the rose insignia with all the blood—wait! Can you see that? No, not here. There! Is that a person? A woman! Look,“ The doctor points, “beneath the rubble. Come on. Quick!”
The Scout Regiment soldier tries to wrench the woman's body from underneath the debris... only to find she has none, the discovery evoking a frightened gasp from the doctor, “Dear Wall Sina!” The woman is a head, only a head. A dead head. When the Scout Regiment soldier moves her slightly to the side, trying to gauge her identity, her mouth opens, as if to say final words, but her tongue, frothy as a rabid Rottweiler's, only rolls out, silent as sepulchres.
***
The sun falls. The moon rises. This moon, however, is different. The moon is red, born of blood, and beneath her scarlet streams of light walks a man through Shiganshina's streets; a man whose face is not that much different from stone. Even in the face of the titan's aftermath, corpses heaped high like human hills, his face is stone evermore, eery and without expression. Soldiers salute him as he passes, saying, "Captain Cole, sir," along with all other facets of formality. These soldiers he treats like flies... lucky are they to receive a second glance if one at all. Approaching an official at the scene, Cole asks, "Casualties?"
“Can't say. Can account for twenty-seven of my unit. No more, no less. They're doing the count now. Should definitely have an answer for you on the morrow.”
“Give me an estimate, Camilla.”
She swallows hard. She pauses. The pause is painful. Punching, even. “Hundreds,” rumbles the woman. “The titan took out hundreds of our men. Can only be certain when we...”
“What? Salvage arms and legs and heads from the town centre? That neighbourhood over there?” He wiped some blood from his cloak to make a point of it, the raw rubbers of some soldier's kidney slippery between his fingers. “My damn uniform? Want to know who died, Camilla? Do you? All because of your inaction.”
“I couldn't--”
“We lost the colonel! Camilla, we lost the colonel,” he scolds. “You knew about the Titan Cult from the beginning... you knew about that mad bitch Elena Munshel... yet you did nothing. Nothing!”
“We all knew,” argues the scout. “We didn't think--”
“No!” A pause. “You really didn't.”
“What's done is done. This is what it is, Cole. This is the history. Carved in stone. Written in ink. And the ink has dried. There's no changing it. Call it what you will... but this is a victory.” Camilla looks sidelong and leads her comrade's eyes to the titan, fallen yet frightening all the same. Around the titan's carcass is a shroud of steam, billowing out above the streetscape like the swelling smokes of a fire. The titan's muscle fibres are soft and sticky on the bones, the cartilage and connective tissues metlting off from it to the same effect meat has with a boiler's scald. The street's cobblestone are covered in blood, some the titan's, most the Scout Regiment soldiers', whose lives were snuffed out like candlelight with a blow of tooth and claw. “We won. Came at a cost, yes... but, ultimately, we won.”
